


the work of two hands

by Ada_L



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: F/M, I'm finally back, added the rating for swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:35:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25542961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ada_L/pseuds/Ada_L
Summary: The first time Felicity hears that five years after being lost at sea, Oliver Queen has been found, improbably, impossibly, miraculously alive, she’s too focused on collapsing the virtual house of cards holding up yet another Glades-targeting pyramid scheme to think much more than that Walter would have been happy.But the first time Felicity hears about an idiot running around the Glades in green leather? Well, it’s not that hard to figure out, is what she’s saying.S1 AU, because why not.
Relationships: John Diggle & Felicity Smoak, Oliver Queen & Felicity Smoak, Oliver Queen/Felicity Smoak, Roy Harper & Felicity Smoak
Comments: 41
Kudos: 79





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Oliver Queen isn’t the only vigilante trying to right Robert Queen’s wrongs - he’s the one using arrows.
> 
> S1 AU. Plot points are thrown to the wayside, details are glossed over, timelines are stretched out, compressed, or outright ignored, and characters show up, disappear or aren’t well-known for being sued by Laurel Lance as serves my whims. Also I know the police in general nor detectives in particular work this way, but I'm having fun. 
> 
> If you decide to leave your thoughts, please be kind.
> 
> I don't own anything.

The first time Felicity hears that five years after being lost at sea, Oliver Queen has been found, improbably, impossibly, _miraculously_ alive, she’s too focused on collapsing the virtual house of cards holding up yet another Glades-targeting pyramid scheme to think more than _Walter would have been so happy._

But the first time Felicity hears about an idiot running around the Glades in green leather? Well, it’s not _that_ hard to figure out, is what she’s saying.

*********************

It takes three full rings for the buzzing of the burner phone to break through Felicity’s concentration, and it’s another two before she manages to pluck it free from the mountains and valleys of takeout containers littering the coffee table. She fumbles with it for a moment, snapping it open just before it goes to voicemail.

“It’s done,” Roy says by way of greeting. “Picked it up twenty minutes ago.”

Felicity exhales, reaching for an abandoned glass of wine. “You’re sure?”

“Yes,” Roy says, “and just so you know, it hurts you even ask.”

Felicity rolls her eyes. “Did you make the drop yourself?”

“Sent one of my guys.” Over the line she hears the sharp hiss of Roy cracking open a beer. “It’s fine, boss.”

“Which guy?”

There’s a long pause before Roy asks, “What is this, twenty questions?”

Felicity sets down her wine glass.

“This,” she says, “is me asking _which guy_.”

“And this is _me_ ,” Roy snaps, “telling you he’s clean and to stop asking every time I send a guy.” His voice softens. “But if it makes you feel better, I could use your help with some security footage.”

“You’re adorable,” Felicity says, “really, but you already used up all of this month’s stay-out-of-jail-free cards.”

Roy snorts a laugh but doesn’t argue. “You going to need another delivery this week?”

Felicity casts a critical eye at her laptops before making a decision. “No, it’ll take two days for them to connect the dots. And then they have to actually arrest him.”

“Cops aren’t that bright,” Roy agrees. “You know where to find me.”

“Yeah,” she sighs. “Goodnight, Roy.”

Felicity drops the phone back onto the coffee table and fishes the remote from where it’s slipped between the couch cushions. She switches on the television just in time to see -

_LOST BILLIONAIRE FOUND_

“Holy shit,” Felicity says.

*********************

Felicity doesn’t think about Oliver Queen for another week - absolutely _refuses_ to let herself remember _how happy Walter would have been_ \- until the breathless coverage of his rescue is overtaken by the breathless coverage of his abduction.

“Wow,” Roy deadpans, “this guy really cannot catch a break.”

Felicity sighs, jamming the phone against her shoulder so she can keep working her tablet. “He can summon hooded crusaders out of thin air, Roy. I think he’ll be okay.” 

And look, it’s not that she doesn’t care - she _does,_ and Oliver Queen has suffered enough for several lifetimes, no matter what kind of guy he’d been before. He deserves a decade of yoga retreats and deep tissue massages and... _mountaintop meditation,_ or whatever the hell else trust-funders do to unwind from the pressure of having no responsibilities. 

It’s just that Adam Hunt must have a new judge on the take, because none of the evidence in the airtight case she’d gifted Lance has resulted in them actually, you know, _arresting_ him, so she’s too angry and distracted to explain that the hooded vigilante hero thing is complete bullshit.

Probably. She’s looking into it.

“You want me to ask around?”

“Sure.” Felicity may already be halfway convinced, but what the hell. “You have enough?”

“Yeah,” Roy says. “And don’t worry, I can always pickpocket a blonde wandering around the wrong neighborhood.”

“Ha _ha_ ,” she says. It hadn’t been her finest moment. “Look how that -”

“Wait,” Roy interrupts. “Wait - _Felicity_. You need to turn on the news. The guy, the hood guy, he - oh, shit.” 

Felicity scrambles for the remote - somehow residing under the couch this time - and then waits for the scene outside Adam Hunt’s office building to rearrange itself into something that makes any fucking sense at all.

“Are you - are you kidding me,” she finally breathes.

“He bogarted you,” Roy confirms. “He totally bogarted you.”

“He didn’t - that’s not what that- ” Felicity feels a little like she’s malfunctioning. “Are you _fucking kidding me_?”

“Nope. You got shown up, boss.”

“I did not get _shown up_ ,” Felicity grumbles, but she’s already distracted again, her mind whirring through the possibilities - none of which bode particularly well for her.

Or for Adam Hunt, but whatever, he deserves it. 

“Could be a coincidence,” Roy ventures, sounding far too... _something_ by this sudden development. Amused, maybe. “He wasn’t exactly flying under the radar.”

“Yeah,” Felicity echoes faintly. “A coincidence.”

“Give me a couple days. And go drink a beer or something before you pass out,” Roy says, and hangs up.

*********************

_“Mr. Steele wants to see you.” Connie’s voice is soft, but Felicity still starts, her knees banging against the underside of her desk._

_“Now?” Felicity ignores the way her favorite red pen skitters away from her as she abruptly pushes herself to standing. “It’s late. I didn’t think anyone was still here except me. And you, I mean, obviously you’re here, but I didn’t think - and Mr. Steele is here, too. And he wants to see me.”_

_Connie gives her a look of gentle exasperation and points to the door. “Mr. Steele asked for you specifically. Get going.”_

*********************

Felicity and Lance aren’t _friendly_ \- he doesn’t know her name, he’s never even seen her face -but he’s been surprisingly okay with the whole operation she’s set up even though it’s only one step removed from passing notes in homeroom. 

And also, you know, _illegal_.

The point is, Lance doesn’t ask for favors, but Felicity knows who Laurel Lance is and what Laurel Lance does, and Felicity understands the hellfire Adam Hunt could rain down on an underfunded legal aid office, so when Laurel had sued Hunt for fraud, Felicity had done Lance a favor.

Except the hood guy got Hunt first, and Roy’s digging hasn’t turned up anything useful - no one knows anything, or if they do, they definitely aren’t saying. Now Roy and Lance are both feeding her rumors that something is going on down at the docks, so Felicity has more work than ever and she still doesn’t have anything to show for it. 

She starts cross-referencing Oliver Queen’s well-publicized social calendar with the confirmed appearances of Starling City's hooded crusader, and while Oliver and the vigilante are never in the same place at the same time, they’re never _not_ in the same place, either.

So it doesn’t prove anything. But it doesn’t _not_ prove anything, either. 

*********************

Felicity is watching the nightly news again - because that’s a thing that has happened, the past year has turned her into a person who _watches the local news_ \- when the anchor announces that Marcus Redmond has been arrested for embezzlement.

And Felicity isn’t surprised, at least not really - Redmond is in the book and is sleazy enough that even Starling City’s less-than-squeaky-clean district attorney has been sniffing around him for years, even if the investigations never find anything because the mayor doesn’t want them to. 

But when the anchor says that Redmond is considered to have confessed after an encounter with the vigilante, Felicity feels her suspicions start to sharpen.

“Did you know anything about this?” she asks Roy.

“Obviously,” he calls from the kitchen, “because I spend a lot of time rubbing elbows with the white collar crowd. Beer?”

Felicity looks up from her laptop. “You know I buy that just for you.”

“I do.” Roy drops onto the couch next to her and tips the bottle in her direction. “And I appreciate it.”

“And I would appreciate if you didn’t get caught on so many security cameras.” Felicity frowns, suddenly curious. “Is this a test? I feel like you’re testing me, Roy. Do you _mean_ to get caught on so many cameras?”

“It’s a gift,” Roy says.

*********************

_The ride to the executive floor takes somewhere between forever and an eternity, and Felicity spends it willing her hands to stop shaking and imagining all the reasons the CEO of Queen Consolidated wants to see a junior employee from the technical division._

_It goes about as well as she expects, which is to say every version ends with Mr. Steele handing her an oversized pink slip, so it’s not really the best way to prepare for what is undoubtedly the most important conversation of her career._

_It’s also what she chooses to blame for what happens next._

_“Why am I being fired?”_

*********************

Felicity has spent so many nights working through the drone of her police scanner that it’s become its own form of white noise, but when the first call comes in from the docks, she immediately stops typing and calls Roy.

“I think the way this works is that you are supposed to call me _before_ I hear about an incident at the docks _from the police,_ ” she accuses, because trouble at the docks means Triad trouble, and the last time there'd been Triad trouble Lance hadn't taken her calls for almost a month.

Also it’s late and she’s all out of wine, so she would appreciate everyone keeping their hands to themselves for one night, thank you very much.

“Excuse you, I’ve been telling you something’s going on for ages.” Roy’s tone is mild, but Felicity can tell she doesn’t have his undivided attention, so she takes a deep breath and decides to wait for the bad news.

“Yeah. Yeah, got it,” he finally says, to someone else. And then, “Since I already warned you about this, I don’t think -”

Felicity sighs. “Please don’t tell me that idiot went after the Triad.”

“Sort of, I guess?” Roy says. “Martin Somers.”

Dread pools in Felicity’s stomach as her suspicions begin ordering themselves into undeniable truths. “Martin Somers? You’re sure?”

“Yeah,” Roy says. “He was their guy, but tonight he confessed to the vigilante and was arrested for ordering a hit, so not so much anymore.”

Felicity’s not firing on all cylinders this late, so it takes a minute for Roy’s words to really sink in - but when they do, she grabs her second-favorite laptop and brings up the page she already knows exists. Felicity had memorized every name in Walter’s little brown book - by now she’s practically memorized their _blood types_ \- but she just has to see it with her own eyes.

Adam Hunt.

Marcus Redmond.

Martin Somers.

Reeling, Felicity sinks back into the couch.

Oliver Queen is the vigilante.

And Oliver Queen has the book.

*********************

*********************

*********************

Thanks for reading! Please excuse any errors.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It doesn’t matter how long Felicity has known Oliver Queen is the vigilante - when he raises his head and looks her in the eye for the first time, Felicity still feels a shiver of satisfaction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back! Apologies for how long this took to finish. Thanks to everyone who let me know how much they enjoyed the start of this AU - I'm grateful for your feedback. I hope you enjoy this new chapter!
> 
> Since I am working within season 1, you'll recognize some dialogue here and there. I still don't own anything! (But I'm still having fun.)

“You need to stay out of my way,” Felicity says, flatly, her hair whipping around her as she faces Oliver Queen on the rooftop. “I can do a lot of good for this city, and I can do it better if you _stay the hell out of my way_.”

It’s hard to say Oliver looks _affronted_ , exactly, since his face is covered by a hood and he keeps his head down, but he adjusts his hold on his bow and shifts his weight from one foot to the other, and when he speaks, his synthesized voice carries a sharp edge of annoyance. “Why should I listen to you?”

“Because you’re the idiot running around the Glades in green leather,” she snaps. Felicity is not in the business of coddling fledgling vigilantes. “I mean, you’re Oliver Queen, too, but mostly you’re the idiot running around Starling City like it’s archery amateur hour.”

Oliver’s free hand clenches into a fist, and it doesn’t matter how long Felicity has known Oliver Queen is the vigilante - when he raises his head and looks her in the eye for the first time, Felicity still feels a shiver of satisfaction.

They face one another, motionless and silent for long enough that Felicity starts to forget why she decided to antagonize an armed and clearly dangerous Oliver Queen. There’s no turning back now, though, so she does the only thing she can - squares her shoulders and stands her ground.

It’s Oliver who moves first.

“Overwatch is a stupid name,” he says, and disappears over the edge of the roof into the night.

*********************

“ _Asshole_ ,” Felicity grumbles, making her way down the fire escape.

*********************

_Felicity’s head is spinning as she walks back to the elevator, the folder Walter had given her clutched tight to her chest._

_Her expectations for their meeting had ranged all the way from being fired to being extra fired, so Mr. Steele asking her to investigate what may or may not be a serious misappropriation of company funds - and which may or may not implicate his wife in some truly shady business - has left Felicity reconsidering the existence of parallel universes._

_The alternative is accepting their conversation unfolded exactly the way she remembers, including the parts where Felicity pantomimed an execution and accidentally made a pass at her boss, so she’s getting rather attached to her multiverse theory._

_Her cheeks are still flushed with embarrassment when she steps off the elevator, so Felicity drops the folder in her purse and ignores the curious look Connie gives her as she rushes out the door again._

*********************

Oliver Queen is sitting at her desk.

Felicity stands frozen in the doorway, trying not to stare, but she’s running on the two hours of sleep she managed after their rooftop... _rendezvous_ , and she’s at work three hours early for reasons passing understanding, so staring, bleary-eyed and slack-jawed, is the approximate level of human interaction her brain can handle while it connects to her mouth.

Because while Felicity considers Oliver Queen’s very existence an emergency, he’s not the emergency she expected to find when Connie called her into the office just before dawn.

“Felicity Smoak.” Oliver stands and flashes what she imagines is his best society son smile, all perfect white teeth and artificial warmth. “Hi. I’m Oliver Queen.”

“I know who you are.” Felicity needs coffee like she needs air. “You’re Mr. Queen.”

“Mr. Queen was my father,” Oliver says, and why he’s trying to charm her is a mystery for her later, more awake self, because right now she’s concentrating on staying perpendicular to the floor. “Please, call me Oliver.” 

Felicity blinks at him. “Sure, okay. What brings you to my office at -” she pushes away from the doorframe and makes a show of checking the clock, “- five thirty in the morning, Mr. Queen?”

The birds hadn’t even been chirping yet, for fuck’s sake.

“It appears I’m having some trouble with my computer,” Oliver says, sliding a laptop across her desk, “and I’m told you’re the best.”

Felicity’s brain registers the veiled insult at the same time her eyes finally focus on Oliver’s destroyed laptop, and she levels Oliver with her best glare. “Lucky for you, I am.”

Oliver’s smile widens. “Very lucky.” 

Despite her better judgment, Felicity looks back down at Oliver’s laptop. She’s not sure what she expected, honestly, but it’s just as wrecked as the first time. 

“Someone _shot_ your laptop, Mr. Queen.” Felicity taps one of the many bullet holes. “If you’re wondering why it’s not working, you hardly needed to come all the way down here.”

“Actually, I spilled a latte on it,” Oliver says, guileless. “But if you could salvage anything from it, I would be grateful.”

He strolls around her desk, visibly pleased with himself, and Felicity raises her chin in challenge. “It’s a shame you came down here so early in the morning, Mr. Queen. Everyone else will be practically _green_ with jealousy.”

It’s petty, and transparent, and not in the slightest bit clever, but Felicity has spent most of the last five minutes remembering how to form words into sentences, so it’s better than nothing.

Oliver smirks, unaffected, and brushes past her out the door.

*********************

_“Gotcha!” Felicity resists the impulse to do something incredibly nerdy when she finally solves Walter’s mystery, even if she’s in her apartment alone and no one would know she allowed herself a celebratory fist pump._

_It’s just not dignified._

_Queen Consolidated’s missing funds were invested in a company called Tempest, which is more of a shady, offshore, tax-evading, nothing-to-see-here smokescreen than anything resembling an actual business. Tempest has no federal tax records, no patent applications, no place under the Queen Consolidated banner, or, as far as Felicity can tell, any apparent reason to exist at all._

_Which means Tempest isn’t a failed investment, because Moira Queen didn’t invest in an old friend’s startup venture - Moira Queen invested in keeping a secret._

_Felicity leans back against the couch, takes a sip of wine, and thinks very, very carefully about what Walter asked from her and what she’s going to do next. Finally, she stretches out her neck, cracks her knuckles, and makes her decision._

_“Alright,” Felicity says to her empty apartment.“I know what you are, now let’s find out_ why _you are.”_

*********************

Felicity’s apartment is more Glades-adjacent than is, strictly speaking, _a good idea_ , so she’s not in the habit of leaving anything unlocked. Still, she isn’t surprised when she hears her bedroom window creak open just before midnight.

“Oh, come _on_ ,” she says, reaching her bedroom just as Oliver finishes climbing through the window. “My bedroom window, really?”

Oliver doesn’t reply, too focused on brushing paint chips off the sleeves of his ridiculous leather costume, and Felicity decides she doesn’t actually want to know why Oliver Queen is allergic to doors. “Never mind,” she says, spinning on her heel and walking back toward the living room. “And before you say anything, you already knew where I lived.” 

Oliver doesn’t bother denying it, which is something, at least. When she turns around, he pushes his hood back and leans against the wall, giving the laptop on her coffee table a significant look.

“Right,” Felicity says, sinking onto the couch. “First of all -” she points to the laptop, “- _not yours_ , so shame on you. Second, I didn’t take you for a _corporate espionage_ vigilante, but enjoy your blueprints of the Exchange Building, I guess.”

Oliver’s face stays completely blank, and Felicity narrows her eyes at him, unable to decide if his confusion is genuine. She taps the lid of the computer. “This laptop? Belongs to -”

“Floyd Lawton.”

“ - Warren Patel,” she finishes. “Who’s Floyd Lawton?”

“An employee of Mr. Patel,” Oliver says, too quickly. “You said blueprints?”

“Of the Exchange Building downtown,” she answers warily. “The Unidac Industries auction tomorrow?”

Oliver still looks lost, and Felicity sighs. “Look,” she says, “I don’t want to know how you got his computer and I _definitely_ don’t want to know why it’s shot to hell, but this laptop belongs to Warren Patel and he’s going to be at the auction tomorrow because he wants to buy Unidac Industries, just like your mother and almost half of Starling City.”

“Unidac Industries,” Oliver repeats.

“Yeah,” Felicity says, waving a dismissive hand. “It’s one of those companies where no one knows what they make but everyone wants to buy it anyway. Except now it turns out they don’t actually make anything and people _still_ want to buy it. People like Warren Patel.” She pauses. “And your mom.”

“And the other potential buyers?”

“Nope.” Felicity shakes her head and swings her feet onto the ground, out of patience. “Not until you tell me how you got the book.”

“My father gave it to me right before he shot himself in the head.” Oliver keeps his eyes fixed on her face and his tone neutral. “I didn’t know there was more than one copy.”

“Mr. Steele gave it to me,” Felicity reveals, her voice shaky - if Oliver was trying to shock her into telling the truth, it fucking _worked_. “He asked me to find out what was in it, so I did, and then he disappeared.”

“I know you didn’t really know him,” she continues, suddenly and maddeningly self-conscious. “But he was... _kind_. And he deserved better.”

There’s a long moment of silence as Oliver looks at her with renewed interest. “Tell me about the other bidders,” he finally says.

Felicity begins to tick them off on her fingers. “Carl Rasmussen, Ray Palmer, maybe, our very own Warren Patel, even James Holder, since unlike this laptop he actually dodged - ”

She inhales sharply, her eyes skipping from the laptop to Oliver and back again. “Floyd Lawton,” she breathes, realization dawning. 

Oliver pushes away from the wall and turns to leave. With the dangerous look on his face, he seems much larger in her small apartment.

“Wait,” Felicity says, surprising herself. “Just... wait a second, okay?”

Oliver stops and looks over his shoulder, and before she can talk herself out of it, Felicity rattles off the number to one of her burner phones. “Just in case. If you need something.”

Felicity blushes scarlet as Oliver nods, something like gratitude in his eyes, and disappears down the hall. 

“Please don’t make me regret this,” Felicity whispers at his retreating back. 

*********************

Felicity is doing dishes - mostly sweeping takeout containers into a garbage bag and washing a few forks - when she hears that after an auction only she would find remarkably unremarkable, Merlyn Global has purchased Unidac Industries for the low, low price of ten times what Felicity will make in her lifetime.

For a bankrupt alternative energy company that never made any alternative energy, it’s pretty fucking impressive.

Merlyn Global hadn’t been on her list of potential buyers, and alternative energy is way outside their usual portfolio. None of their recent acquisitions point to any interest in the energy sector, and since the brains behind Unidac Industries weren’t talented enough to bring a single product to market, it’s not a vanity acquisition, either.

It’s a mystery, and Felicity hates mysteries, but she’s prevented from considering it any longer by the scraping of Roy’s key in her apartment door’s ancient lock. She glances at her watch - it’s already after midnight, but she knows he wouldn’t have come over until he was sure he wasn’t being followed. 

“He was wearing a trench coat,” Roy announces as soon as he opens the door, completely delighted. “He brought a _newspaper_.”

Felicity uses her heel to nudge Oliver Queen’s purloined laptop under the couch and out of sight. “What, no fedora?”

“No, but you’re one to talk.” Roy gives her a teasing grin as he flops onto the couch. “You only made me try to teach you a brush pass like, a thousand times.”

They both know it’s true, but Felicity still opens her mouth to argue until Roy silences her with a pointed look. “And what did we decide after the last time?”

She heaves a resigned sigh and holds out a hand. “That I stay in the apartment.”

Roy nods, satisfied, and passes her the slim blue drive. “Lance says something about this one never sat right with him. And also he says that Williams played the doubleheader, which is probably some weird code that means something to you.”

“Yes,” Felicity says. Lance loves baseball. She plugs in the drive and types today’s password. “And that’s because Peter Declan is innocent.”

Roy looks her over, curious and skeptical. “You mean that psycho who killed his wife in front of their kid? I thought he was going to be executed next week.”

“Not if I can help it.” Felicity frowns as she gets her first look at the shockingly inadequate file. It’s no wonder Lance has misgivings - this tragedy of a case file is thin even by Starling City standards, and she hadn’t thought those could even go any lower.

“How are you going to prove it?”

Felicity blows out a frustrated breath. “I have absolutely no idea.”

Which is a lie.

Felicity has exactly one very green, very annoying idea, and she absolutely does not want to talk about it.

*********************

*********************

*********************

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Actually, I’m not the vigilante.” Oliver sounds pretty zen for a guy who’d been facing a murder trial when he woke up this morning. “Maybe you hadn’t heard.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life in a pandemic comes at you fast. 
> 
> My adverb garden remains unweeded. I'm still changing plot details to serve my whims. I’m still having fun! I still don't own anything. Hope you enjoy!

Seventeen hours.

The thing is, Felicity doesn’t really _need_ to watch the press conference - the local news had scooped it before she’d started her second cup of coffee and the entire division had been buzzing with rumors when she’d claimed a headache and left before lunch. But she’s still standing in her kitchen, tapping an unsteady beat against the countertop as she listens to the district attorney announce the city is dropping all charges against Oliver Queen. 

City Hall’s official statement lays blame squarely at the feet of the Starling City police department, and by the time the chastened police chief steps to the podium and promises an internal investigation into Oliver’s arrest, Felicity’s had enough. She slams her laptop closed, resting her forehead in her hands before reaching for her cell phone.

Oliver picks up on the second ring, and Felicity, realizing she now has, oh, _shit_ , sixteen hours and forty-nine minutes before an innocent man is executed for murder, says -

“I need a confession.”

“Actually, I’m not the vigilante.” Smug really must be Oliver’s default setting, because he sounds pretty fucking zen for a guy who’d been facing a murder trial when he woke up this morning. “Maybe you hadn’t heard.”

“No, I live on a deserted island,” Felicity snarks. “Of course I _heard_. But thanks to your little stunt we are running out of time, so you’ll have to excuse me if I skip the congratulations.”

Oliver doesn’t take the bait. “ _We_ ,” he drawls, “that’s new.”

Felicity tips her head forward, bracing her hands on the counter before bringing the phone back up to her ear. “Are you done? I can hang up -”

“You called _me_ ,” Oliver reminds her. “Why would - ”

“ - or we can talk about Peter Declan,” she finishes with a sharp exhale. “And Jason Brodeur.”

There’s a long pause - too long, Peter Declan now has sixteen hours and forty- _seven_ minutes - before Oliver speaks. 

“Meet me at my club,” he says, and hangs up.

*********************

_“Three years ago, Tempest purchased a warehouse in Starling City.”_

_Mr. Steele takes the folder from Felicity’s outstretched hand with nothing more than a raised eyebrow, but Felicity studies his face with trepidation - she’s just accused his wife of lying to him and stealing from Queen Consolidated, so she’s still expecting to be thrown out of his office._

_To her surprise, Walter only flips through the file with a frown.“I don’t suppose you happened to include the address?”_

_“The last page,” Felicity says with practiced disinterest, as if she hasn’t bothered to note it, as if she does not know exactly where Moira Queen’s nondescript building sits in the middle of Starling City’s nondescript warehouse district._

_As if she hasn’t found herself in possession of three months’ worth of security footage for a neighboring warehouse, either._

_Walter peers at her over his glasses for a moment before snapping the folder shut. “Thank you,” he says. “That will be all, Ms. Smoak.”_

*********************

“You’re sure about this?” 

Oliver, who’d been pretending he was inspecting the masonry near the club’s back entrance rather than waiting for her, shoves his hands into his coat pockets and rocks back on his heels. “You already knew where I worked.”

“I guess.” Felicity leans back for a better view - even in twilight Verdant still looks far more abandoned steel factory than under-construction nightclub. “So this is it.”

“This is it,” he echoes. “Tommy thinks we can open in six months. Five, if we’re lucky.”

“Tommy as in Tommy _Merlyn_?” Felicity glances around the empty alleyway, lowering her voice to an accusing whisper. “Your best friend works here? Your best friend works _here_ , above your probably dark and creepy basement full of incriminating evidence? Did you forget everyone thought you were the vigilante actually, _literally_ yesterday?”

Oliver tilts his head, looking at her with a faint smile. “Are any of those actual questions?” 

“No.” She frowns. “But I’m starting to think I overestimated you, maybe.”

Oliver shrugs and reaches for the door. “Maybe. If you’re done, there’s someone I want you to meet.”

“Oh, what the hell,” Felicity says. _Sixteen hours and three minutes._ “Lead on, Macduff.”

“Macbeth?” she asks, taking in Oliver’s blank look as he ushers her into the club. “Shakespeare? Nothing?”

He shakes his head, and Felicity pauses, squinting at him. “How many colleges did you say you dropped out of, again?”

“Four,” he offers, way too cheerful for a guy who’s admitting he couldn’t hack freshman English. “I make up for it.”

“That’s one way of putting it,” she mutters, following him down the hall.

*********************

“Felicity Smoak, meet John Diggle.”

Felicity recognizes the man at the bottom of the stairs as Oliver’s bodyguard at the same time she places the look of barely-contained fury on his face, so she only needs one guess to figure out whose idea it was to reveal his identity as Oliver’s accomplice.

But hey, it wasn’t her idea, either.

“Pleasure.” Felicity pauses on the last step and hooks a thumb behind her. “Is he as crazy as I think he is?”

Mr. Diggle doesn’t smile, but he uncrosses his arms and his expression rearranges into something a fraction less hostile. “More, most likely.”

“Oh, I think you’d be surprised,” she says, elbowing past him to take in the basement in all its flickering-fluorescent-lights-and-dark-corners glory. “I’m a very good judge of character.”

She feels rather than sees Oliver’s scowl. “I am _not_ crazy.”

“I’d say jury’s out,” she calls over her shoulder. “Except, you know.”

Oliver and Mr. Diggle don’t laugh at her joke, which is fine because she wasn’t really kidding. It’s in her best interest that Oliver not land himself in prison, and in Mr. Diggle’s, and it’s about to be in Peter Declan’s best interest, too - but that doesn’t stop her vague sense of unease when she considers that Oliver is just as guilty as Lance believes he is.

She shakes her head, forcing herself to abandon that unwelcome train of thought, and stops to run her hand along a table of honest-to-goodness arrowheads. She raises a finger to poke at the tip of the closest one until her eyes skip to the next table and its collection of stupidly, absurdly, _unfairly_ impressive computing power. 

She yanks her hand away and whirls to face Oliver again, pointing an accusing finger at the nearest monitor. “Are you kidding? Do you even know how to use these?”

“I found _you_ ,” he grumbles, laying his coat over the nearest workbench. 

“I _let_ you find me,” Felicity replies absently, turning to admire his setup again. The universe bestowing this technological windfall on Oliver Queen hurts her soul. “There’s a difference.”

“Oliver says you need our help,” Mr. Diggle interrupts, settling against a nearby table and giving her an appraising look.

“Right.” She snaps her fingers and spins in a circle, searching in vain for a chair. “Jason Brodeur. Well, technically Peter Declan. But mostly Jason Brodeur.”

“Let me guess,” Diggle says, nodding toward Oliver with a tone of not-at-all-veiled accusation. “Mr. Brodeur is on his father’s list.”

“He’s... in the book,” Felicity admits. Her eyes cut over to Oliver, but he’s facing away, uninterested in the conversation she drove all the way here to have with him, which is - fine, it’s fine. _Fifteen hours and fifty-two minutes._ “Am I missing something here?”

“No.” John’s lips are set in a thin line, but he resettles against the table, motioning for her to continue. “You were saying?” 

“Peter Declan did not kill his wife.”

Mr. Diggle frowns. “Jason Brodeur killed Peter Declan’s wife?”

“Also no.” Felicity glances to her left again before returning her focus to Mr. Diggle. “Brodeur’s company has been dumping toxic chemicals in the Glades, and when Camille Declan threatened to blow the whistle, he had her murdered.”

“And her husband framed,” Diggle says, catching on.

She nods. “Declan says Camille gave her supervisor a file that could _prove_ Brodeur Chemical was poisoning the Glades."

“Sounds like motive,” John says. “So where’s the file?”

Felicity spreads her arms wide, gesturing around the basement. “If I knew, do you _honestly_ think I’d be here right now?” 

John raises one shoulder, conceding her point, and Felicity continues. “Her supervisor claims the file doesn’t exist, but after Camille’s death - and I mean, like really, _really_ soon after, like, they weren’t even _pretending_ \- he was promoted to vice president, so, you know, just fishy business all around.”

“It’s certainly interesting timing,” John agrees. ‘But not enough to set off any alarm bells?”

Felicity scoffs. “In this town? It didn’t even matter. It _doesn’t_ even matter. Even if I could prove the file exists, it’s not enough.”

“What would be enough?”

Startled, Felicity turns toward Oliver’s voice. He’s standing behind a large wooden trunk, somehow already dressed in his leather costume and gripping the strap of his quiver with both hands. He’s looking at her with an almost unnerving intensity, and Felicity gulps down a breath before she answers.

“A signed confession,” she says, holding his gaze. “A signed confession, or Peter Declan dies tomorrow.”

It’s almost anticlimactic, that her word is all it takes. Oliver gives Mr. Diggle a sharp nod and turns for the stairs, disappearing back through the door before Felicity can say anything else. _Fifteen hours and thirty-nine minutes._

She stares at the empty doorway for a minute before spinning toward Oliver’s computers, not bothering to hide her longing. “I don’t suppose he needs an address?” 

Mr. Diggle, who’d been putting in an earpiece, gives her a pitying look and nods toward the stairs. “Have a good evening, Ms. Smoak.”

*********************

_Felicity hasn’t been keeping an eye on the security footage of Moira Queen’s warehouse._

_That would be wrong._

_It’s just that as a concerned Starling City citizen she’s dedicating her free time to monitoring the warehouse district for graffiti artists, and that’s why -_ the only reason why _\- four days after Felicity tells Walter about Tempest, she watches as a grainy, familiar-looking figure approaches the warehouse door._

_“Oh, Mr. Steele,” Felicity breathes, “what are you doing?”_

*********************

It takes Oliver half as long to break in through her bedroom window this time, which, since she’d replaced the locks last weekend, is more than a little insulting. She listens to the floorboards creak as he walks down the hall, choosing to focus on erasing the evidence of Roy’s latest foray into petty larceny.

“Oh, _no_ ,” she sing-songs when he reaches the doorway. “An intruder. Not again.”

Oliver leans forward, alarmed, and Felicity looks up at him with exasperation. “It’s _you_ , genius,” she says. “ _You_ are the person breaking into my apartment.”

His shoulders drop, and Felicity hides her grin behind an exaggerated shrug before looking back down at her computer. “Why are you here, anyway?”

“Peter Declan was released this morning.”

“I already knew that. Everybody already knows that, it’s all over the news.” She looks up again, studying his face. “Why are you _really_ here?”

Oliver shifts his weight back and forth, hands clenched by his sides. “Work with me,” he finally says. “At my club.”

Felicity lets out the kind of unladylike snort that would embarrass her if she gave a single fuck what Oliver Queen thinks about her. “No.”

“It’s not going to be the courts,” Oliver says, undeterred, “and it’s not going to be the cops, so it’s going to be me. And Diggle. And I hope you.”

“What do you think I was doing here before you showed up?” Felicity demands. “Painting my nails? Washing my hair? You’re not the only person who cares about this city, Oliver.”

She glares at him, but her anger begins to falter when she finds only sincerity on his face. Finally, she pushes her laptop aside and leans forward. “Look,” she says, “I am - it’s _good_ that Peter Declan is free and Jason Brodeur is, is - _not_ , okay? But that doesn’t make me in the market for a vigilante team-up.”

“You have my _father’s_ list -” 

“No, I have your _parents’_ book -”

Oliver stiffens. “My mother has nothing to do with this.”

“Where do you think Walter got his copy?” Felicity challenges. “A book swap?”

He doesn’t relent, but Felicity forges ahead. “Mr. Steele took his copy - _my_ copy - from your mother, and there’s no way your father and your mother are the only ones who know about the book. There are other copies out there. There are other people in this city who know about the list.”

“Your point,” Oliver says through gritted teeth. “You could get to it sometime tonight.”

“My _point_ is that for a guy who likes to hang out on rooftops and sneak into innocent people’s apartments, you have exactly zero talent for subtlety.” Felicity takes off her glasses, closing her eyes and pinching the bridge of her nose. “My point is that of the many, _many_ reasons I don’t want to work with you, I don’t want to work with you because you are going through the book _in a straight line_ , which is so many different kinds of insane you might as well walk around with a neon -”

She pauses, surprised Oliver hasn’t interrupted her yet, but when she looks up, she finds her apartment conspicuously Oliver-free. She glances around the empty room for a minute before reaching for her laptop and cell phone.

“Listen,” she says as soon as Roy picks up. “Far be it from me to tell you how to commit misdemeanors, but if you don’t start at least _pretending_ to avoid the security cameras, you are on your own, mister.”

*********************

_Mr. Steele doesn’t stay in the warehouse for long -a few minutes at most - and when he exits, he pauses outside the door, lowering his head for a moment. Felicity can’t see his face because there’s only so much she can do to enhance the warehouse’s security feed, but it’s not a stretch to imagine she’d been right about the lying and the stealing and that Walter has just discovered how much._

_It’s not as great a feeling as she’d expected, being right._

*********************

Felicity glares over her shoulder as her cell phone buzzes for the third time in as many minutes, still smarting from the bruising argument with Lance that only ended when she hung up on him for the first, very satisfying time. She’s decided to send him to voicemail until sometime in the next century, but her resolve wavers every time the phone rings again.

She finally surrenders after the sixth call, snatching it off the couch and wrenching it open before she can change her mind. “You _know_ I made the right call,” she snaps, “so unless you are calling to _apologize_ for being the _world’s most_ -”

“I truly do not want to know who’s on your bad side,” Mr. Diggle’s unexpected voice says. “Can you be at the club in an hour?”

Felicity looks down, considering. She’s wearing her favorite pajamas, there’s non-expired ice cream somewhere in the back of the freezer, and she’s holding a novel that she has on Connie’s good authority is trashy enough to scrape a few points off her IQ, so the only thing stopping her from melting into the couch is her own curiosity.

“Alright, fine,” she sighs, placing the novel back to gather dust on her bookshelf of good intentions. “But only if I get to break in.”

*********************

“What is _she_ doing here?”

Felicity pauses halfway down the stairs, grateful she decided to take Mr. Diggle up on his offer of a passcode, because she imagines Oliver’s tone is the one he uses right before somebody meets the pointy end of an arrow.

“ _She_ was invited. And _she_ didn’t break into your so-called security system.” She looks over at Mr. Diggle. “Thank you and you’re welcome.”

John doesn’t acknowledge her, busy holding up two hands in mock surrender under the force of Oliver’s withering glare. “Don’t look at me, someone needs to talk some sense into you.”

“I’d say I’m flattered, but I doubt you had options.” Felicity sets down her purse and sinks onto the nearest stool. “Alright, hit me. What’s he done?”

“Oliver is going to get his head out of his ass,” Diggle says, “and catch those bank robbers before somebody gets killed.”

“I’m not interested in street crime, Diggle!”

“ _Street crime_ ,” Felicity says, her eyebrows making a break for her hairline. “So that’s what we’re calling serial bank robbery and attempted murder these days.”

A muscle is working in John’s jaw. “Evidently.”

“Crime happens in this city every day,” Oliver counters. “What do you want me to do, stop all of it?”

“I want you to make a difference in this city like you’re lecturing the rest of us about every damn day, Oliver!”

“Wait, wait, hold on,” Felicity says, raising a hand. “Where was he going tonight?”

There’s a moment of heavy silence, John and Oliver still glaring at each other, which Felicity takes as confirmation. “Scott Morgan?” she asks, even though she already knows the answer. “Scott Morgan? Are you serious?”

Oliver huffs out an irritated breath, still refusing to look in her direction. “Scott Morgan shuts off water and power -”

“Hey!” Felicity leans forward, tapping the cover of Oliver’s copy of the book where it rests on the table. “I’m familiar, remember?”

He crosses his arms, unsatisfied, and Felicity exhales, her exasperation warring with disbelief. “Working through the book _in order_ is like, the worst plan in the history of plans, okay? If you really want to make a difference in this city, you have to be a vigilante _for_ the entire city.”

Oliver’s glare starts to fade, and Felicity hurries to capitalize on his indecision. “Bank robbers first,” she says. “Which, despite my better judgment, I will even help. But bank robbers first.”

Oliver looks conflicted. “And then Morgan.”

Felicity sighs. “Sure thing, big guy. And then Morgan.”

*********************

*********************

*********************

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that’s not what “Lead on, Macduff” means but it made me laugh. Thanks for reading!


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